


Misbehavior

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub Play, Multi, Oral Sex, Overload Delay and Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet series in which In which Arcee is the Dom, Bulkhead is the Switch, and Wheeljack is the happy Sub desperate for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eight Hours Later

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> This is a ficlet collection of smutty interludes with Arcee/Bulkhead/Wheeljack and there's no discernible plot whatsoever.

Eight hours and no ping. Arcee was impressed.  
  
She rolled back into base, Bumblebee beside her, glad that it was still early enough the kids were in school. She had business to take care of and didn't need a snoopy Miko poking around and interrupting.  
  
Arcee was far from embarrassed, but Ratchet got more than a little flustered when Miko started asking questions. For his part, Jack didn't want to know. He was perfectly happy with his ignorance. He'd said as much.  
  
“Up for a little sparring?” Bumblebee beeped as they shifted to root mode. He danced in place, throwing a few playful jabs into the air.  
  
Arcee grinned. “Not this time, Bee. Got a little project that needs my attention first.”  
  
Bee's optics brightened. “Say no more,” he bleeped, gave Arcee a thumbs up and wandered away, probably to bug Ratchet. It was kind of a game, now, to see who could get Ratchet to holler first.  
  
It was the only way the doc would let off some steam.  
  
Amused, Arcee slipped back into the tiny corner of the bunker they'd turned into semi-private quarters. There wasn't much room here. It was cramped and uncomfortable and they shared space, but it was better than Jack's garage in winter time. Besides, Arcee was small. She could fit anywhere.  
  
Anticipation revved her engine and Arcee keyed open the door to her tiny room and stepped inside, surveying her domain.  
  
“Right where I left you,” she announced as she moved into the room and the door slid shut behind her. She planted her hands on her hips. “You're made of sterner stuff than I thought.”  
  
A muffled whine was her answer. Kind of hard to vocalize properly with a false spike down your intake and locked in place with a thick strap.  
  
Arcee's grin widened as she approached her pet.  
  
Wheeljack was kneeling on the floor, the berth far too small for his frame. She'd shackled his wrists to the berth above his helm, and turned an old pipe into a makeshift spreader bar, keeping his pedes nice and spread. There was a growing puddle of lubricant beneath him and the air was tangy with the scent of it.  
  
He was shaking, she noticed. Little spikes of charge zapped out from beneath his armor. If she listened, she could just barely hear the whirr of the vibrator as it happily buzzed away within Wheeljack's valve, spinning and pulsing. The inhibitor attached beneath his spike, however, prevented all overloads.  
  
He'd been like this since she'd left for shift. She'd said, “ping me if it's too much. I'll have Bulkhead come give you a hand.”  
  
Eight hours and not a single ping.  
  
Arcee snagged a backless stool and dragged it close. She sat down right in front of Wheeljack, close enough to touch. The thick need in his field smacked into her and she shivered.  
  
“Need some relief?” she asked, tipping her helm to the side.  
  
She watched oral lubricant slide out of the corners of his mouth. His jaw and chin and chestplate glistened with it.  
  
Wheeljack's intake bobbed. His spike dripped to the floor, squeezing out more lubricant from around the lightly vibrating sound she'd left in it. There was an inhibitor in the base of it, too. Thank you Ratchet, who had stammered and scowled and rolled his optics, but gave her the thing anyway.  
  
“If you're going to engage in questionable activities, I might as well make sure you do it safely,” he'd said.  
  
And as a courtesy, Arcee'd magnetized a monitor to Wheeljack's frame, so that Ratchet could keep an optic on his vitals. Eight hours later and no ping from Ratchet either.  
  
“You're such a good toy,” Arcee purred and she leaned forward, dragging one finger up the length of his spike.  
  
Wheeljack's engine roared. He trembled, spinal strut arching. His spike bobbed.  
  
“I'm feeling generous right now,” Arcee continued, the tip of her finger teasing the capped head of Wheeljack's spike. “So I'll give you a choice. Should I take out the vibrator or the sound?”  
  
The false spike in his mouth would remain. She rather liked him reduced to moans and grunts and desperate whimpers. And it would leave his mouth nice and prepped for Bulkhead later anyway.  
  
“Which will it be?” Arcee asked as she teased him with her fingers. “Flick your headlights for your spike. Flash your high beams for your valve.”  
  
She waited and licked her lips when his high beams flashed at her. She should have guessed.  
  
“You're so predictable.”  
  
Arcee dropped to her knees and notched herself between Wheeljack's thighs. A quick flick of her fingers and a twist of her wrist unsnapped the vibrating plug, giving her room to slide her fingers up in beside it.  
  
Wheeljack's helm tossed back. His engine raced. Heat poured into the air.  
  
“Desperate, are we?”  
  
His valve clenched on her fingers, liberally drooling lubricant.   
  
Arcee removed the inhibitor with her free hand and set it beside her. The vibrator was removed and dropped to the floor. She grabbed his hips, scooted closer, and popped her panel. Her spike extended immediately, already glossy with lubricant. Just the sight of him had left her revved.  
  
The head of her spike nudged at his valve and glided against the copious amounts of lubricant.  
  
“Now,” she said, locking optics with him. “Be a good pet and don't overload until I get mine. And then you'll get your reward.”  
  
A frustrated noise squeaked out of his vocalizer. His optics blazed as though calling her a rather rude name.  
  
“Yes," she agreed. “I suppose I am.” Her hips snapped forward, burying her spike to the hilt in his clenching valve.  
  
He overloaded on the spot, convulsing around her spike in delicious ripples. Arcee held herself within him, savoring the rhythmic clench. He ex-vented, noisily and full of wet heat, and then sagged in his bindings, engine racing.  
  
Arcee shook her helm and flicked her fingers over his spike. “Bad pet,” she chastised. She circled her hips, stirring her spike through the pool of lubricant and his overly sensitized nodes. “Now I'll have to punish you.”  
  
His valve clutched weakly at her. He couldn't hide the excitement in his field. So misbehaved. Sometimes, Arcee swore he did it on purpose. And Bulkhead agreed with her.  
  
Arcee worked her hips in endless circles, not thrusting, but stirring his arousal. She retrieved the inhibitor and snapped it back into place.  
  
“Or maybe I'll let Bulkhead do it instead,” Arcee said, dragging her fingers up his spike as she let the inhibitor do its work. Wheeljack clenched around her, already writhing with restless need.  
  
“Yes,” she purred, sliding into him a bit faster now. “I think I'll do just that.”  
  
She would get as many overloads as her frame would support. And then she'd let Bulkhead do his thing.  
  
Arcee grabbed Wheeljack's hips once more and pulled him onto her spike, fragging him a little faster.  
  
“You have four more hours until your next overload,” she said. “So I hope that one was worth it.”  
  
Wheeljack moaned behind his gag. There was still no ping.  
  
Arcee smirked.


	2. Of Disobedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack must never, ever know that Arcee had gotten the idea from him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally in Database in Transmission. I plucked it out as it applies to this series. So it may already be familiar to some of you.

Arcee heard Ratchet before she saw the medic approach, but she made no efforts to warn Ratchet about what he was about to see. After all, part of the fun was in seeing that look on Ratchet's face.  
  
Kind of like the one she could see from a peripheral sensor right now.  
  
“Why is Wheeljack in his altmode in the corner?” Ratchet's field buzzed with bewilderment.  
  
Arcee looked up from her datapad. The medic looked honestly disgruntled as well, perhaps because Wheeljack's current position made it difficult for Ratchet to get to one of his toolboxes.

She'd put Wheeljack there on purpose. It was the most highly visible corner.  
  
Arcee smirked. “Because I put him there,” she answered, and returned her gaze to her datapad. Not that she'd been paying it a whit of attention.  
  
Most of her focus was on the insubordinate Wrecker, crackling with unresolved overcharge, and due to suffer it until Arcee felt he deserved his release.  
  
The idea of the corner she'd gotten from Jack, not that she'd ever tell her human partner what she used the information for. Humans had some very, very interesting discipline techniques. And since pain wasn't much of a deterrent to Wheeljack (just last week she'd whipped him to overload, it had been a record), Arcee had sought out other methods.  
  
Ratchet planted his hands on his hips, his optics narrowing at her. “Though I am not sure whether I want to know the answer, pray tell why you put him there?”  
  
Taillights flashed at her. Arcee tilted her helm in Wheeljack's direction, arching an orbital ridge. It wasn't embarrassment that Wheeljack sent her, but amusement. There was very little that shamed Wheeljack.  
  
In fact, Arcee would be surprised if anything shamed the unrepentant slagger. He was a voyeur and an exhibitionist to boot.  
  
“Because he was disobedient.” Arcee reclined in her makeshift chair, resolving to be more comfortable.  
  
It had only been an hour. He wasn't suffering in the slightest.  
  
“Disobedient,” Ratchet repeated flatly.  
  
He stared at her and then he looked at Wheeljack, and then he looked back at her. He slowly, ever so slowly, connected the dots. He did, after all, share a wall with Bulkhead and Wheeljack's claimed room.  
  
And Arcee knew when he understood because Ratchet's field flared with a mixture of outrage and exasperation. He threw his hands into the air, whirled on a heel, and stalked away.  
  
She could have sworn he muttered something about “not needing that” before he disappeared down the hall. Poor Ratchet. Maybe Optimus would console him.  
  
Arcee did not laugh, on the outside at least.  
  
Brake lights flashed at her this time. And then Wheeljack's right blinker flicked on and off, something like a wink. Fragging cheeky Wreckers.  
  
Maybe the corner wasn't enough for him. Maybe what he really needed was a spanking. For her to bend him over, borrow Bulkhead's paddle, and strip the paint off his aft. Or make Bulkhead do it. He could hit harder. And in the meantime, she could do something about Wheeljack's smart-aft mouth.  
  
Hmm. Now there was an idea.  
  
Arcee's own desire returned with a vengeance. Though careful control kept her from betraying it to Wheeljack.  
  
“Two more hours,” she said aloud, pretending full interest in her datapad. Or maybe she'd double it just to prove a point.  
  
Wheeljack's engine revved before he silenced himself. Smart mech.  
  
Little did he know, Bulkhead would be back in two hours. And he would be just as disappointed to hear how badly Wheeljack had misbehaved.  
  
Well, for a certain definition of disappointed anyway.  
  
Arcee smirked.  
  
Poor Ratchet wasn't going to get any recharge tonight at all.

****


	3. Down Time

He'd lobbied long and hard for this and now that he'd earned it, Bulkhead planned to make full use of it. He so rarely had time to indulge and this was his chance, but all he could think about was getting his spike into Jackie and letting him set the pace.   
  
“You're such a sap, Bulk,” Wheeljack drawled from his position in Bulkhead's lap. His hips moved in a steady rhythm, rising to show off the thick swell of Bulkhead's spike before his valve swallowed it down inch by ribbed inch.   
  
Bulkhead was content to rest his hands on Wheeljack's thighs, his thumbs stroking the inner plating. “Just 'cause I don't beat ya like 'Cee, doesn't mean I'm a sap. You like what I offer, too, you know.”   
  
“I know.” Wheeljack winked and rolled his shoulders. His hands had been bound his back, a precaution to keep him from taking hold of his spike and ending the session too soon.   
  
He had a habit of doing that, Jackie did. He had no patience. Given the opportunity, he'd wrangle as many overloads as he could manage from his own frame. Then again, considering how often Arcee kept him on the edge, no wonder.   
  
“S'why I love ya, partner,” Wheeljack added and his glossa swept over his lips. He inclined his helm, casting Bulkhead a smirk. “And that two-wheeled menace, too.”   
  
Bulkhead chuckled. “She'd consider that a compliment.”   
  
“Know that, too.” Wheeljack rose up and sank down again, a shiver echoing across his plating.   
  
Bulkhead could feel Jackie's valve rippling around his spike, calipers rolling and gripping as though trying to pull out his overload. Hah. Of all of them, Bulkhead had the most stamina and Jackie knew it. His efforts were futile.   
  
“Did someone say my name?”   
  
Bulkhead glanced over his shoulder to see Arcee emerging from the smaller room they'd hollowed out for a berth, arms stretched over her helm and a yawn on her lips.   
  
“Bout time you woke up!” Wheeljack said and he sank down, grinding hard on Bulkhead's spike. “We figured you were going to sleep this whole day away. And after Bulk worked so hard to get it for us.”   
  
Arcee tossed Bulkhead an amused look. “Did you lose the gag?”   
  
Bulkhead chuckled and swung his gaze back forward. “Didn't need it this time.” His hands inched forward and he let his thumbs sweep Wheeljack's pelvis, one brushing his spike panel, the other rubbing his anterior nub.   
  
“Bulk likes to hear me talk.” Wheeljack waggled his orbital ridges, though it was lost to a moan as Bulkhead applied more pressure to his throbbing sensor. “Unlike a certain someone.”   
  
Bulkhead had a second's proximity warning before he felt the lithe, warm frame press to his back. Arms slithered over his shoulders from behind and ex-vents caressed his neck cabling.   
  
“Because you talk far too much,” Arcee retorted, but her tone was playful, as were her lips as they pressed a kiss to Bulkhead's audial. “Thank you for our downtime, Bulkhead. I appreciate it.”   
  
He never had any doubt.   
  
Wheeljack's thighs trembled and he pushed himself up again, lubricant seeping from his valve around Bulkhead's spike to soak Bulkhead's hips. “I talk as much as I need to. Now get off Bulk and let him do me like I need him to.”   
  
“I'm hardly stopping him,” Arcee purred. Long, slender fingers slid down, toying with transformation seams on Bulkhead's chest.   
  
He shivered, engine rumbling. His hips flicked upward, jostling Wheeljack, who hissed a moan.   
  
“You're distracting me,” Bulkhead said. It wasn't a complaint.   
  
Arcee's glossa flicked over his audial again. He heard a click and felt the wet slide of a spike against his back plating. Arcee rocked forward, grinding against him.   
  
“Wasn't my intention,” she said. “Just wondering when it's going to be my turn?”   
  
Wheeljack sucked in a ventilation, his optics flashing. He leaned forward, changing the angle of Bulkhead's spike in his valve, but also presenting an obvious invitation.   
  
“Could be now, if you wanted,” he said, lust spiking heavily in his field. “I can fit you both.”   
  
They'd done it before after all. Bulkhead had many, many archived memories of that particular night. And so many others. Wheeljack was insatiable, Arcee was creative, and the two of them combined often left Bulkhead an exhausted, yet satiated heap of green metal.   
  
Arcee rubbed her helm along Bulkhead's. “I'm not rude enough to interrupt Bulkhead's plans. I can wait.”   
  
“And what if my plans included you?” Bulkhead asked, turning his helm to catch her gaze. “What if I didn't grab a gag because I thought you'd prefer to occupy his mouth.”   
  
“Primus, Bulk,” Wheeljack groaned and his valve cinched down on Bulkhead's spike, squeezing hard. Not quite an overload, but almost there.   
  
“Mmm.” Arcee nipped at his mouthguard, something Bulkhead should have thought to remove. “Sounds good. So long as you don't mind.”   
  
His hands slid back to Wheeljack's thighs, ignoring Jackie's muttered protest. “Not at all,” Bulkhead said.   
  
He felt more than saw Arcee grin.


	4. Red Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcee struggled to get her head in the game, only to realize she didn't want to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cleaned up piece of Flash Fiction set in this universe. Enjoy!

“Hold him steady, Bulkhead.” Arcee kept her voice cold. Firm.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Bulkhead rumbled. He sounded entirely too eager about this.  
  
Arcee stood in front of Wheeljack, whose wrists were firmly held up and over his head by Bulkhead. It was a new game they were trying. A request of Wheeljack’s. Then again, they were almost always Wheeljack's idea. He kept finding new ways to push his limits and theirs.   
  
Arcee held an energon prod in one hand. It crackled alarmingly, though it was on the lowest setting. She never had liked these things, and didn’t understand Wheeljack’s fascination with them.  
  
“Ya think a little toy like that scares me, ‘Con?” Wheeljack taunted with a smirk. His scarred lips begged for more marks.   
  
Arcee gripped his chin, forcing him to look at her. “It’s just the start, Wrecker. In the end, you’ll be spilling everything I want to know while begging me to stop.”  
  
Wheeljack barked a laugh. “We’ll see about that.”  
  
“Yes, we will.” Arcee released him. She looked over Wheeljack’s head, catching Bulkhead’s gaze. “No matter what he says, don’t let him go.”  
  
Wheeljack’s wrists creaked as Bulkhead tightened his grip. “You can count on me, boss.”  
  
Wheeljack’s engine revved. His field bled arousal. His cooling fans clicked on with a loud whine. It wasn’t enough to reassure her.  
  
Arcee adjusted her grip on the prod, struggling to get her head back in the game. Roleplay shouldn't be this hard. Or perhaps the problem was this particular role, what Wheeljack had asked her to do.

“We’ll start now,” she purred, desperate to get herself and the game back on track. “And if you’re good, I won’t even kill you when I’m done.”  
  
She hated the taste of the words. She swore they stank of Starscream.  
  
Her script faltered.

Ah, so there was the problem.   
  
“Won’t that be a change of pace?” Wheeljack laughed, but his defiance came from a distance, the end of a long tunnel of understanding. “Do your worst, Con.”  
  
It suddenly clicked for her why she felt reluctant from the start. Her plating crawled with the realization, and the last dregs of arousal she'd clung to melted away.   
  
Arcee held up a hand. “No,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “No, I can’t. No. _Clementine_.”  
  
The prod shut off.  
  
“'Cee?” Bulkhead sounded concerned, his field reaching for hers even as she turned away from both of them, her armor clamped tight.  
  
“Not this one.” Her winglets twitched. “I’m sorry, Wheeljack. I can’t do this one.” The prod clattered to the floor. She hid behind one palm, suddenly aware she was trembling.  
  
“Hey, it’s okay.” Wheeljack’s voice was earnest, apologetic. He never wheedled, never coaxed. He never gave the safeword himself, but he was the first to respond to it when uttered. “You don’t need to apologize.”  
  
“I know I don’t. I just… I need a moment. I’ll be back.”  
  
She dropped into alt-mode and all but fled the empty storage room before either of them could approach her.  
  
Bulkhead pinged her immediately, the sound overlain with worry. He fretted over them both, the nanny bot. But that was Bulkhead, the rock upon which she and Wheeljack tossed themselves when the world became too much.   
  
'I promise I’m fine,' Arcee sent back. It wasn’t even a lie. 'I just need some space to get my thoughts straight. I’ll be back.'  
  
Bulkhead, at least, understood. He promised to look after Wheeljack, who immediately pinged in with a string of silly emojis he had to have learned from Miko. It was enough to return the smile to Arcee’s spark.  
  
She would go, collect herself, and then she’d come back and interface her mechs silly. But for now, she just needed some quiet and the solitude of the open road.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm marking this as complete though if I get more ideas about expanding this in the future, I'll just add them here.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Walking the Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8579671) by [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin)




End file.
